


It's a Start

by dreamfleet, mezmerize



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Finn is a good dude no matter where he is, First Order Poe Dameron, Fluff, Little Rebellions, M/M, Pre-Slash, a beginning, where they're both in the First Order and rebel anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamfleet/pseuds/dreamfleet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezmerize/pseuds/mezmerize
Summary: FN-2187 is a model First Order Captain: he's strong, intelligent, and leads what is probably the best TIE Corps in the Order.PO-2883 can pilot a TIE with his eyes closed, but he isn't a model anything. Somehow, they still have a lot in common.Or, where they're both in the First Order and somehow there's still a lot of hope.





	It's a Start

“Lieutenant PO-2883,” a deep voice murmurs from behind him, an armored body pausing barely a foot away from him. Captain FN-2187 stands at perfect parade rest, face hidden behind his immaculate helmet. PO-2883 grins to himself, his own helmet resting snug under his arm. Even lifting his chin hurts, but he manages to do that and straighten his spine.

“Yes, Captain?”

Captain FN-2187 stays quiet for a long minute, helmet directed toward PO-2883. Finally, he says, “it’s regulation to wear your helmet in the hall.”

“Yes, Captain,” he murmurs, but doesn’t make any move to actually put it back on, only shifts a little so he can just see his captain from the corner of his eye.

There’s blood on his head. He can feel it trickling wetly down into his eyebrow. It’s very annoying. He was supposed to go straight to get sanitized but ducked out before they noticed, because it stings almost more than the procedure does, having those chemicals sluice against him. He’ll clean it himself later after training.

“Lieutenant,” FN-2187’s voice is softer now, even with the distortion from his helmet. His body moves, just slightly, out of his perfect posture. Then he snaps back and says brusquely, “I expect you to be mission ready by tomorrow.”

PO-2883 grins to himself. “Do I have a mission tomorrow, Captain?”

“Yes,” FN-2187 says. He hesitates, then adds, “report to the hanger at 0800."

“Sir, yes sir,” PO-2883 says crisply, just barely managing to keep his customary drawl out of his voice. FN-2187 never stands for it. He’s the picture-perfect example of a First Order Captain: neat, obedient, and in command of one of the best squadrons.

They all wake at 0600, so he has to actually go through his morning drills before breaking away to report to the sprawling hangar bay. It’s already crawling with tech crews cleaning up the TIEs from the last skirmish (the ones that actually made it back; even with their updated tech they’ve been getting annihilated by the Resistance every time they go out).

PO-2883 skirts around everyone, trying to look like he’s on a mission and not like every single line in his body hurts where his armor digs into him, and also not like the helmet is so heavy on his head that it’s pressing on his brain. It’s a relief when he spots Captain FN-2187 over by an older model of TIE. They were able to salvage a lot from the fallen empire. Before PO-2883 was drafted into the TIE Corps, he was one of the techs meant to fix them up, and knows their guts better than he knows his own body. 

Standing in the shadow of the TIE’s bulky solar arrays, FN-2187 looks almost nervous. His shoulders are tense under his armor and his right hand rests just at his hip where his blaster is holstered.

When he gets close enough (a little too close for regulation), PO-2883 snaps a quick salute. The chrono in the corner of his visor tells him it’s exactly 0801. “Morning, Captain. Where are we going?”

“Classified,” FN-2187 says and motions for PO-2883 to get into the TIE. “Get into second position.”

“Sir?” PO-2883 blinks at him, already moving to follow the order. “I’m not piloting?”

FN-2187 doesn’t respond. He follows after PO-2883 and drops into the pilot position, bringing down the hatch as soon as they’re both inside. “FN-2187 requesting permission to depart,” he says into the intercom.

“FN-2187, depart from airlock six,” the nearly identical voice comes back. The ship rumbles around them, coming off the ground, a little shaky, and FN-2187 takes them toward the airlock.

“Don’t cling so hard to the controls,” PO-2883 tells him gently, half-twisting in his seat to look back. “It’ll listen to you no matter what. Just ease her up.”

“I’ve got this,” FN-2187 says, but he does follow the suggestion, hands lighter on the controls. They settle into the airlock, waiting for it to seal behind them . PO-2883 can’t see the massive doors slide open, but he can hear the whine of machinery and then the deadness of space as FN-2187 takes the TIE out.

“Just the two of us?” PO-2883 asks after a moment. He twists back toward his own controls, scanning over them for a quick refresher. They can all pilot both halves of a TIE, anyone in the TIE Corps has to know how, but he hasn’t been in the gunner seat in a very long time. Their course isn’t even listed in front of him, so he has no idea where they’re going or why. All he can see is the Finalizer shrinking quickly behind them from an imposing shape blotting out the stars to another dark blip in the spaces between them. PO-2883 ignores the odd twinge in his gut at the sight and looks back down at the panel in front of him. “Didn’t know you could fly a TIE.”

FN-2187 clicks off the intercom connection to the Finalizer and plugs in a course, out into the Outer Rim with no specific planet specified. Once the course takes and the ship shifts directions, easy as anything in a way PO-2883 has always loved, he tugs his helmet off with a sigh, laying it in his lap. “I’m full of surprises, PO-2883,” he says with a hint of humor.

“I’m getting that, yeah,” PO-2883 mutters back. “You really not telling me where we’re going? I could be a lot more useful if I know what I’m getting into. Captain.” He tacks on the last bit partially out of respect and partially to see if it gets FN-2187 to listen to him, because it’s true: while his best (in his personal opinion, which of course in the eyes of First Order doesn’t matter a bit) attribute is thinking on his feet, he’ll be a lot better if he gets at least a few minutes to plan. 

After a second, he clicks his own helmet off with a wince. “Ah. ‘S it insubordination to say I hate these things?”

“Yes,” FN-2187 says blandly. “Everything you do is insubordination, PO-2883. You aren’t on this mission to be useful. I think that your head is too banged up to do much.”

“Now that’s not entirely true,” PO-2883 points out with a tiny grin to himself. “I can still teach you how to fly a TIE. Also, I followed your orders, so that doesn’t count as insubordination. If that’s not why, then why am I here? That classified too?”

FN-2187 sighs heavily. He lets the silence stretch before responding. “You’re here because this is an older TIE model. I disabled the recording devices in it.”

PO-2883 sucks in a sharp breath and sits up very straight in his seat. “Alright,” he says, suddenly careful. They’re still hurtling neatly through space at sub-light, straight for the Outer Rim, as far as he can tell. The Finalizer is completely out of sight. “So we’re off the record.”

“Exactly.” FN-2187 keeps his eyes forward, looking out at space with his back to PO-2883. “Yesterday, Commander Phasma sent you to reconditioning. This is the fourth time in this cycle, the twelfth this year. I’d hoped you would understand what this means, but it doesn’t seem that you do.”

“I do pretty well, actually,” PO-2338 says quietly, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. “It means no one is looking at my mission records.”

“No,” the word comes out sad and quiet. “Your mission records are the only reason that they’re still trying. But they won’t save you for much longer. Commander Phasma is losing patience with you.”

He can’t help but shiver at FN-2187’s tone, hunching down a little in his seat. “Then they need to take a closer look,” he mumbles, but it comes out barely above a breath. He frowns down at his helmet. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” FN-2187 takes a breath and his next words come out rushed, like a secret he maybe wasn’t committed to sharing, “I’m the same as you are. Reconditioning. It doesn’t work on us.”

“I don’t see you being sent there every three seconds,” he snaps, but softens a second later as FN-2187’s words sink in. He twists around, trying to see as much of FN-2187 as he can. It’s hard in the cramped older cockpit, full with bulky controls before the streamlining of the latest models. 

He never would have guessed his perfect, orderly, efficient Captain wasn’t the model of a First Order officer, but now that it’s out in the open, bouncing around their tiny cockpit, PO-2883 can see it with the clarity of the lights on the ship. “You’re different.”

FN-2187 makes a noise of affirmation and tugs off the glove on his left hand, then his right. He doesn’t turn around. “I learned how to survive. After my first reconditioning, I decided I wouldn’t let it happen again.”

“Smart,” PO-2338 snorts, mouth twisting in a smile that feels more like a grimace. He gives up after a moment and drops it, curling his hand around one of the controls for the cannons. It swivels with a metallic hum that PO-2883 can feel more than hear. “Tried that for about a quarter. Obviously I’m not messing up that bad, or I’d be dead already.”

“You’re valuable. That’s the only reason you’re still alive,” FN-2187 tells him gently. “I need you to try harder. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

“I,” PO-2883 starts, and then swallows around the rest of his words, feeling dizzy. He drops his hand back into his lap. “You’ve been protecting me, sir?”

“Yes,” FN-2187 admits, his eyes reflecting in the glass, looking directly back at PO-2883. He can’t look away. Those eyes are very dark and very, very human. PO-2883’s heart feels like it’s in his throat, which is ridiculous, of course, because his heart goes in his chest and nowhere else. And yet: there’s a lump, and he has to swallow around it. “And I’ll continue to try. I’ve fought to ensure that none of my troopers are recycled.”

“Guess I’m not making it easy for you,” PO-2883 mumbles. He has to drop his eyes again. That gaze makes him shiver in the regulated air. “Should’ve told me. It was fine when it was just my ass on the line.”

“Do you want to be recycled?” FN-2187 asks shortly.

“No, of course not. But—” but sometimes he thinks it would be better than continuing with this, with tiny rebellions that get him nowhere, with gunning down who PO-2883 is pretty sure are innocent people and not dissenters trying to bring chaos into the galaxy. Or, even if they are, maybe the galaxy could use a little chaos instead of the frigid, regimented life the First Order leads. He keeps those doubts to himself, always, but they’re there in his head with the screams and the terrified whites of people’s eyes before they blow up under his fire. 

PO-2883 wrenches his brain away from that, scowling. “You know what, are we even on an actual mission? You don’t have to protect me, Captain. I can keep myself alive. I’m good and Phasma knows it, or she wouldn’t have put up with me this long.”

“Lieutenant,” FN-2187 snaps, voice hard. “Phasma does not make decisions about my troops. I do. You are alive because I have fought to keep you alive.”

“Obviously Phasma does, or this wouldn’t be a problem,” he bites out, anger curling sharp and hot in his belly. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry— he probably shouldn’t be, not so soon after reconditioning, and it’s just another sharp reminder why it’s useless, why it’s probably better that he just be recycled anyway. Obviously whatever they try on him doesn’t work. “Look, if it didn’t stick once or forty times, what makes you think it’s gonna now? What’s the point of this?”

His voice echoes in the silence of the cockpit. FN-2187 watches his reflection in the glass. It’s a longer silence now, stretching between them and the vastness of space.

When he speaks, it’s quiet and calm. “It’s not going to. I’m here to give you a choice.”

There goes his heart again, leaping to where it doesn’t belong.

“A choice in what, exactly?” PO-2883 asks carefully. They’re in interstellar medium here, the dark spaces between the stars. Full of threads and invisible matter that PO-2883 can’t see and has no idea how to interpret. 

“You can choose to leave the First Order. I’ll take you to the Outer Rim, and you can go from there. Run, as far as you can away from the Order,” FN-2187 takes a breath, dropping his gaze. “Or you can come back to the Finalizer and risk recycling.”

PO-2883 twists around immediately, hardly even in his seat anymore. It doesn’t matter. The shock running through him is like the first bolt of electricity during reconditioning: running through his limbs, sending static sparking along his nerves. “What? You can—is that what this is?”

“Yes,” FN-2187 finally turns to look at him, expression vulnerable. PO-2883 has never seen him look like this. He’s seen the flashes of humanity now and then: it’s impossible not to, in such close quarters as they’ve been sometimes, but this is something new. "I’d rather you leave the First Order than be recycled. It’s your choice.”

“If I leave the First Order,” he bites out with something like ice running cold through his veins, “then I’m leaving you behind here. If you’re like me,” his eyes flick over his captain’s face, so rarely seen because he’s such a good soldier. Usually. Except that he’s been protecting all of them this whole time and probably (if he knows anything about their hierarchy, and he does) taking the brunt of it every time PO-2883 does something stupid and dangerous and against orders. “Why don’t you leave too?”

“I have to take care of my troops,” FN-2187 says softly, a small, sad smile on his lips. 

“I am your troops. And we gotta take care of you too,” PO-2883 insists. “So, if this isn’t really a mission, can we land?”

“There is a mission,” FN-2187 says tiredly. “It’s simple. We can talk once it’s complete.”

“Better be simple,” PO-2883 mumbles, and deflates back into his seat to watch the nothingness of space.

The mission is reconnaissance, finding a woman on the small outer planet of Bancar.  PO-2883 is ostensibly there as backup, but when they land, he’s ordered to stay and guard the TIE. He considers putting up a protest, but their landing was slightly bumpy and his head is swimming. Besides, the area around them is pretty, all long, swaying grasses in a soft shade of green, rustling in a slight breeze. It’s chilly here. The air smells fresh, like earth and ozone from the TIE, and a few other smells that PO-2883 has no name for. 

He’ll use the time to think through FN-2187’s proposal, he decides, and then drops his head back against the solar panel and doesn’t think about anything at all.

Captain FN-2187 returns after what can’t be more than half an hour with a data chip that he plugs into the TIE’s system. “We have a few hours until we need to be back on the Finalizer. How’s your head?”

“Been better,” PO-2883 mutters. He doesn’t bother to lift his head, rubbing at the side of his skull where blood has crusted all over again. It started leaking out of his ear halfway through the descent into the atmosphere. He decides not to tell FN-2187 about almost blacking out.

FN-2187 sighs softly, very close. Before he can react, warm fingers slip under PO-2883’s chin, turning his face. PO-2883 freezes under the touch, unsure what to do. There isn’t a lot of casual touching. Punching, sure, nudging in the barracks when they were still in training, but even when fixing TIEs they’re wearing gloves and minimize brushes of fingers. He isn’t wearing his gloves. The pads of his fingers are calloused. “Sit,” he says, wiping some of the blood off PO-2883’s face.

“I’m really alright, Captain,” he mumbles back, halfheartedly tugging. 

“Don’t pretend to be tough.” FN-2187 says gently. “Reconditioning is… well. I’m surprised you’ve survived this many.”

“If I’ve survived this many,” he tries, but then there are fingers on his cheek and his eyes flutter shut in surprise. Even medical examinations are perfunctory and efficient. There’s none of this gentleness. PO-2883 has the niggling sense that that isn’t how the rest of the galaxy handles it. FN-2187 watches him with a soft expression, cleaning up his face with the cuff of his bodysuit. 

“You’re still here and you’re still just as obnoxious. I think you’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know that obnoxious is the word I’d use,” PO-2883 grins wryly, ignoring the flashes of pain still shaking through him. 

“You’re not okay,” FN-2187 says, concern flitting over his face. He’s very expressive under that helmet. No wonder PO-2883 hardly sees him take it off. “Get back in the fighter and stay there. I’m going to get you help.”

The words send fear bolting through him. “C’mon, no,” he catches FN-2187’s hand before he can pull away, holding him there. Their fingers slide together and PO-2883 is aware of the touch more than the warmth of the TIE behind him. “If you stick up for me too much, Phasma’ll get suspicious, just—we can say something went wrong and it took longer. Just let me rest for a bit, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not getting help from the First Order,” a smile flickers on FN-2187’s face. It changes how everything looks: his eyes are brighter, and his cheeks are softer, and PO-2883 can’t look away. “Phasma doesn’t need to know. Now, Lieutenant, get in the TIE and stay there.”

“You’re not—" he starts, but the Captain looks like he knows what he’s talking about (and also, a little bit like he’s terrified, but PO-2883 isn’t going to mention that bit). Silently, he squeezes his wrist in thanks and goes to slip into the pilot’s seat out of sheer habit.

Curiosity gets the better of him. He sticks his head back out of the cockpit. “Who _are_ you getting help from?”

“Not sure yet,” FN-2187 calls back, already heading back  in the direction he came from.

_W_ _aiting_ when now PO-2883 knows there’s something interesting out there is harder _,_ but following FN-2187’s orders so far hasn’t actually led him astray, so grudgingly, he waits again right where he is, fiddling idly with the TIE’s calibrations.

By the time FN-2187 actually gets back, he’s managed to get the engines up to 150% of their previous capacity and restored the faulty shield generator that was the reason this model got grounded in the first place, and despite the lingering pain in his head that throbs through him every few minutes.

That’s probably a bad sign. He’ll be fine, he figures. He’s had worse.

FN-2187 is no longer in his uniform , instead carrying a bag over his shoulder, accompanied by a tall woman who looks human with long black hair in a braid down her back.  PO-2883 can see the sleek lines of his body, usually hidden by the bulky armor, through the TIE’s cockpit. He walks with an easy grace with no armor holding him down, his muscles shifting with each step. The bodysuits don’t leave much to the imagination, and FN-2187 is wearing a shirt that definitely doesn’t belong to him. It’s bright blue, for one, and there’s nothing so colorful in any of the meager things they own.

“He’s in there,” FN-2187 says, but his hand lands on her arm. “Thank you again. He’s dressed as a stormtrooper, but he’s safe. I promise.”

PO-2883 tries to make himself look as unthreatening as possible, raking a hand through the uncut hair on the top of his head to make it curl everywhere. He greets the woman with a weak little smile. “Thank you for coming all this way. Appreciate it.”

She glances over him, then turns back to FN-2187. “Get him out of there. Then I’ll look.”

“Yes, ma’am,” FN-2187 nods and hefts himself up the TIE, holding his hands out for PO-2883. He’s not wearing gloves, either, and his uniform boots stripped but still on his feet. He’s smiling, and PO-2883 is dazzled, for lack of a better word. He knows he’s staring, and he must look really out of it, because that smile shifts quickly into concern. “You doing okay?”

“Been better,” PO-2883 breathes again, and forces himself to look away. He lets himself be tugged up onto his feet, then clambers down out of the TIE himself. “So, uh. How far’d you go?”

“There’s a village a kilometer or so from here,” FN-2187 helps him down to the ground and steadies him with hands on his shoulders. PO-2883 stares back at him for a second too long, his heart thick in his chest, and then looks again at the person. “This is Maya, a medic who’s working here. Maya, this is P—” FN-2187 starts, then smiles wider and says, “this is Poe.”

PO-2883’s eyes go wide. He looks up at his captain for a second, taking in that smile, the crinkle of his nose when he does it, and mouths the name (the _name_ , and hasn’t he always fantasized about having one of those, like Commander Phasma, tried out words in his mouth that never felt right, but this one, the shape it makes on his lips—) and grins, dizzy and bright. “Poe. Yeah. I’m Poe. Pleasure to meet you, Maya.”

Maya quirks a brow at him, but doesn’t say anything about the exchange and starts her examination without another word.

He’s diagnosed with a concussion from swelling in his brain and some internal bleeding. The procedure is quick but painful, Maya keeping it as sterile as possible in the field they landed in.  She’s definitely good at what she does, and her touches are softer than the medics on the ship.  FN-2187 stays by him, a hand wrapped around his,  _Poe’s_ , the entire time.

Maya stays just a bit to test whether he can walk in a straight line (yes) and to give FN-2187 instructions to make sure he stays stable and doesn’t travel in space for a few more hours. 

“His blood vessels could burst from the strain,” she warns softly, and Poe swallows.

“Yes ma’am. Guess we’re grounded for a while.” He glances at FN-2187 and then back to her. Her face is unreadable. “Is there anything I can do to repay you for this?”

“I paid her,” FN-2187 reassures him, “thank you again. Really. And,” he nods his head, “I appreciate your discretion.” 

Her lips quirk up in a tiny half-smile, almost like she’s amused, as she packs away her scanners. “Of course. Good luck.”

Without anymore fanfare, she turns and starts the walk back to her village, the tail of her hair swinging long and dark behind her. Poe watches her go for a few seconds, transfixed and a tiny bit dizzy, before turning to FN-2187. They’re still holding hands. He isn’t going to mention it. “Poe, huh.”

“No one outside of the Order goes by a designation,” FN-2187 says, leaning against the TIE next to him. “I told her my name is Finn.”

“Finn,” Poe repeats quietly. It’s easy on his tongue. He repeats it a few more times, grinning wider and wider, and looks up to meet his eyes. “Captain Finn. I don’t see why you don’t have a name. Phasma does. I like it.”

“I,” FN-2187 starts, then wrinkles his nose. “I never thought about it before. I’ve always been FN-2187.”

“You should have a name,” Poe says firmly. “Not just a designation. I’m gonna call you that.”

Finn opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Instead of answering, he digs in the bag and hands him a bright orange shirt in a similar style to what he’s wearing. “We have a few hours to kill. Wanna go to the village?”

“For recon, or for fun?” PO-2883— _Poe—_ asks, already shucking off his armor like that was ever a question. He strips out of it quick and easy, flashing his captain a grin. “What I really want to do is learn more about this whole ‘trying to smuggle me off the Finalizer’ thing.”

“What’s there to learn? You die here, in the books. Then you go and do whatever you want. I have some credits, for missions, I can give them to you,” Finn says, his  eyes  on Poe even as he strips out of his bodysuit. They don’t leave his face.

“And what happens to you when I disappear?” Poe asks quietly, pausing in the removal of his dark undershirt. “You go back and, what, find someone else to smuggle away?”

“Maybe. I’ll get a tick off my record for letting a soldier die. I don’t… I don’t think any of the others are like us, at least not in my division.”

“And then you’re alone,” Poe says. He’s a little cold, standing here shirtless in the thin atmosphere. The uniform pants aren’t thick enough to keep in any heat, and the planet’s star hasn’t warmed the day much yet. “So why don’t you come too?”

“I finally became a Captain,” Finn says, dropping his gaze away from Poe, down to the ground. “I can finally help people. Keep them safe.”

Poe sucks in a breath and slowly starts to pull on the bright shirt Finn gave him. The dark gaps in his mind are disappearing. “That’s been your goal this whole time, huh?”

He nods and says, “Phasma told me I cared too much, when I was younger. I had to stop caring to succeed. But I never did,” he glances up at Poe, eyes hard, and something flutters in his belly at the look on Finn’s face. “I learned to work within the system, to do what’s right.”

“Alright,” Poe mumbles, staring at him. He looks so strong, standing there without his armor and with a name, head held high. The name really does suit him. _Finn,_ for an individual. For not just another number. Poe wants to— to touch him again, or feel his hand on his cheek gently pressing blood away. He shakes his head and tugs the shirt down into place. It feels strange and soft on his skin, loose instead of clinging. “Right. Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

Grimacing, Finn takes a step toward him. “You should. You should run, leave. I meant it, I can’t protect you. Phasma wants you gone.”

“Then I’ll get better,” Poe says and steps up to meet him. There’s a stubborn set to Finn’s jaw that he recognizes from himself. “I’ll be the model trooper, I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone to do that.”

“PO—” Finn starts, then corrects himself to, “Poe. I’m sure you’d try, but. I don’t know if you can be. You’re too much,” he struggles for a word, glancing over Poe, “too unique.”

“That’s a kind word,” he says dryly. “Look, Captain, I can pull it off. Alright? It was one thing when it was just me on the line. It’s different with you.”

That brings a laugh out of Finn, soft and surprised. “You don’t, you _are_ like me. I always cared too much,” he grins and nods his head , and there, he wants to pull Finn close all over again. His throat is tight and his belly is twisted up like it does when they jolt into hyperspace. “Okay. Okay. We can do this.”

“We can definitely do this,” he agrees, smiling so wide that he can feel the stretch of skin, unfamiliar, and he has to ask because this is what keeps getting him in trouble: “What’s this, exactly?”

Finn looks a little sheepish. “I don’t know. Staying alive?”

“I think it’s more than that,” Poe says, but his smile widens, and his hand is on his captain’s arm. He’s much warmer than the air around them. “But it’s a start.” 

**Author's Note:**

> For such a dark setting this is a pretty light fic, all things considered, except for the head injuries and general horrifying-ness of the First Order. But Finn & Poe are sweet no matter where they are.


End file.
